by Barry Sadler
Curling up, using his knees to warm his chest and stomach, he set the rifle close at hand, leaning it against a clump of the bamboo. In these waist deep waters he wasn't too concerned about being snuck up on: He would hear anyone before they got too close to him. For now, he needed the rest more than anything else. Letting his eyes close, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, ignoring the chill and wet earth he rested on. He slept the light, razor edged sleep of the soldier whose ears listen though the thoughts are far away... Faraway, where the sounds of battle were those of swords, spears, and armor, where men stood face to face hacking at each other with edged weapons, and the rumble of man-made thunder was yet long centuries away. Huns and Mongols, Tartars and Vikings, Castillian and Burgundian knights on huge armored mounts, all of them died for some idea of obscure honor. Great fleets of ships with bronze prows, powered by the arms and backs of slaves who strained at the oars, driven by the slavemaster's lash until their hearts burst under the strain. In his mind were all the wars of the last two thousand years. There were rivers and oceans of blood, and mountains of dead human flesh that had once faced him in mortal combat. He knew them all. Attila was no stranger, nor was the great Augustus or Tiberius. Nero, he had seen face to face, and he had watched the burning of Rome, as he had the first sacking of it by Alaric the Visigoth. On both sides of the Great Wall of China he had marched and fought. Each step, each battle, doing no more than pushing him closer to the next one. Even in his sleep, his feet still ached from the horrible cold of Russia as he followed in the wake of the remnants of the dying army of Imperial Napoleon. Each pain, each bit of suffering, had to be tolerated on its own. The only relief for him was that he knew it would eventually pass, as it always had. Pain would leave him for a time and he would endure till the next...
Thich stood at the edge of the marsh, sweeping a battery powered lantern over the dark, straining his eyes to peer through the reeds as if he thought by looking hard enough he would be able to penetrate past the range of his light. He knew this region well and already had men spreading out around its perimeters to isolate the five square miles of reeds and mire from the outside world. Somewhere inside there, he was certain they would find Langer. With the dawn the hunt would begin in earnest. His men would close in from all sides, in the same manner as when Indians used beaters to chase the tiger into the sights of the white hunter. He would pick his spot and wait for the quarry to come to him.
Thich stayed by the edge of the marsh. A lean to had been built for him. The rest of the Viets made out the best they could from their posts around the water's edge. The only fire was that of their leader who sat alone waiting for the dawn, anticipation building in him. He was, for the first time, beginning to understand the fascination the British had for chasing a fox with a pack of hounds. The Legionnaire was the fox, his soldiers were the hounds, and he would ride them until they brought the fox to bay.
An hour before dawn, Thich sent in the first line of his beaters. He had nearly two hundred men with whom to flush his prey. Left on the banks within sight of each other, more soldiers stood, weapons at the ready, to prevent Langer from escaping the marsh and getting back into the jungle.
Langer's eyes snapped open, focusing instantly even in the dark. A small gurgling sound had drifted over the marsh, followed by a spontaneous curse from a Viet who had found a sink hole. Mist still sat on the waters of the marsh, floating above it in gray thick wisps that made everything appear to move in eerie gray images. A thin sheen of light rode at the top of the haze where dawn was cresting the ridge of mountains. It would be light soon. He knew he would still have an hour, perhaps two, before the sun burned off the mist and exposed the marsh. By then he would have to be gone. Hanging the rifle by its strap at a slant across his back, he retied the ends of the bandoliers and hung them around his waist. He didn't want to use the rifle if he didn't have to. It would draw too much attention to his location. This was going to have to be handled much more quietly. Taking the bayonet in his right hand, he slid belly first into the waters. Skin rippling at the chill of the marsh, he let his weight take him under to where only his eyes were above the fluid.
Slowly, easily, he pushed forward with his feet, the weight of the rifle and bandoliers acting like the weights on a scuba diver's belt.
A crocodile could not have done much better as he gently, steadily, pushed himself forward, still not knowing which side of the marsh he was going toward. It didn't make much difference as long as he got out. A cough from a Viet gave him some direction and reminded him that he needed something to cover his feet with. Well, he thought, first come, first served. The mist resting on his head, he moved in the direction of the cough, knowing the Viets would probably expect him to be holed up somewhere hoping they would pass him by in the fog. Not this time. If he was going to get out he would have to be the one who started things. From all around him he began to make out different noises: feet being sucked at by mud, water dripping from men's bodies. Even the sound of their breathing reached him. There were a lot of those sons of bitches out there looking for him. He wondered if Thich was with them, or had he blown the bastard away?
Comrade Thich had at last entered the marsh himself. He was carrying one of the three radios available to him. The rest had been damaged by the flood in the tunnels and had to be repaired. Still, with these he would have some semblance of control over his search parties. He would have Langer one way or another, of that he was certain. He would see the man again. It was his destiny.
CHAPTER TEN
Langer zeroed in on his target. A small boned Viet with a bad case of overbite and lack of confidence was pushing his way through a clump of reeds when Langer rose up in front of him out of the marsh grass. The diminutive Vietnamese tried desperately to find a scream somewhere in his throat, but the best he came up with was a squeak. He was so pathetic that Langer didn't have the heart to kill him. Instead, he grabbed the little man by the throat and gently applied enough pressure to give the terrified Viet the blessing of unconsciousness. Langer lifted the small body up onto a clump of reeds where the little bastard wouldn't sink in the water and drown. All he took from the man was his jacket. It was too small for him to wear, but he could tear it up later to make wrappings for his feet. The man's rifle he let go. He preferred the one he had to the shorter barreled Moisin Nagant.
Slipping back to where only his nose and eyes were above the surface he pushed on, leaving behind him a wake of bubbles where his feet had disturbed the sediment below. The sound of men in the distance became more frequent. Pausing near the roots of a mango tree, he stopped to listen, the water lapping around his lips. From his left, a figure came toward him, a darker figure than the gray of the mist. He lowered himself down even further. Behind the lead figure came two others, all in water up to their waist, weapons held high to keep them dry. They were going to walk right over him if they didn't see him first. Sucking in a deep breath, he went under. Letting the dark waters cover him, he used the roots of the tree and the weight of his gear to hold him under. It seemed much longer, but could have been no more than ten or twenty seconds before a knee bumped his nose, nearly breaking it. He would have preferred to let them pass but the blow to his face forced him to rise, spitting water out of his mouth, his nose bleeding in streams. He rose right in the face of the man who had unwittingly kneed him. When he came up it was with the bayonet in his hand, which was already reaching out for the soft belly of the Viet. There had been no time for him to do anything else. Twisting the thick blade to break it loose of the stomach muscles which had clamped around it, he threw the man to one side and went after the next, who had two seconds more life than his now draining comrade. He screamed once before the blade tore open his throat. The last man had time to lower his rifle to his shoulder and pull the trigger. He had made one fatal error. He had forgotten to take the safety off. Even as his fingers clumsily tried to move the small lever, Langer's bayonet was in the air. He had made a strong, sure overhand throw from a dista
nce of less than eight feet. The blade didn't hit square on target. It went through the bones of the sternum and lodged firmly in the left lung severing a large artery in the process. Langer ripped out the blade as he passed over the Viet's sinking corpse, pushing the body to the bottom and holding it with one foot while he worked the blade free of the bone. The Viet's chest let loose of its last breath through the hole the bayonet head made, setting free a stream of bubbles to merge with the marsh gases.
The second man's scream had blown things and the sun was now visible as a hazy orb in the east. Langer wasted no time on the dead, or in trying to recover his blade. He sunk back into the marsh and half swam half walked in the direction from which the Viets had come. That had to be the way out and, if he could get past the line of men searching the marsh for him, he would have a chance to break clear and make a run for it.
Getting as low as he could he swam under the surface of the marsh, the waters dark and muddy from the rains. He rose to get a breath then went under again, using the roots of trees or bunches of the high strong reed grass to propel his body forward. Several times he had to crawl over spots where he was exposed for a few seconds, but then he slid back into the mire once more and was lost to sight. The only way anyone could have seen him would have been to step on him as their dead comrade had done.
At last he had to rest. He lay on his back with only his nose above the surface so he could breathe normally for a while and feed his air starved system. Rising up a bit more, he listened. The sounds of pursuit were all behind him. He was nearly in the clear. Rolling over to his stomach, he looked to his front. Just past a clump of old bamboo, as thick as a man's biceps and yellow with age, he could see the edge of the marsh, and only a hundred feet beyond that, the edge of the tree line. Once there, they would play hell catching him.
Thich had turned back to land. He was no infantryman to wade through muck like a peasant. Besides, he had an idea that his quarry had slipped through their net. Three dead men and one still unconscious were mute testimony that he was somewhere close. If he had been the fox, he would have doubled back after creating an opening in the line. From his radio he received no further word of any contact, only that two more men had drowned in sink holes. Vietnamese were notoriously bad swimmers and Thich was no exception.
Langer was just coming out of the marsh, dripping mud and moss from his body and face, as Thich reached the shore line only a few steps ahead of him. He was concealed from view by the trunks of a cluster of trees.
Langer stopped in his tracks as he heard the sucking sound of water filled boots squeaking just to his left. He leaned against a tree as Thich stepped past him. Langer grinned from ear to ear. This was too good to be true. He had the little swine for sure this time. Thich turned just in time to see Langer rushing at him, bayonet held low and to the front, going for his gut. He shrieked in terror and fell over backwards. His scream brought rifles to the shoulders of two of his soldiers standing in the tree line. One fired from the hip, nearly hitting Thich. It was enough to make Langer break his stride and roll away without reaching his target. Not even having time to curse his luck, he rolled, crawled and scrambled on his belly into the brush at the base of the trees. With regret, he gave Thich one last look and scuttled away into the jungle. Next time.
Thich crawled on his own belly to the safety of his men, beating at his radio, yelling into it for everyone to come back; he needed protection. This was the third time the big nosed foreigner had nearly killed him. From all over, Viet Minh troops responded to his call.
Langer took off, trying to gain ground. He would have only a few minutes before they were after him again, and he needed every second. As he ran he took the Tokarev Model 40 sniper's rifle from his shoulder. With fumbling, wet, wrinkled fingers he opened up the small metal latch in the butt plate. Inside he knew he'd find what he needed, a cleaning kit and a small tube of oil. A trained sniper would always have the items needed for its maintenance on hand. While on the run, he swabbed out the barrel and oiled the action, working it to make sure there would be no stoppages when he needed it. Refilling the magazine, he felt a bit better. Now he had something to fight back with at a distance. He'd been through the German army's sniper school and knew how to use the weapon to its maximum potential. His biggest worry was the telescopic sight. The treatment it had recently received couldn't have done it any good. Halting for just enough time to raise the weapon to his shoulder, he looked through the sight and grunted; he was pleased. The sight looked okay, no water in it. Tearing a piece of cloth from the Viet 's tunic he had taken he carefully wiped down the lenses of the scope with the cleanest piece he could find. Then he wiped the rest of the weapon, using a touch of oil from the tube in the butt plate. Next he used the remainder of the tunic to wrap around his feet, giving them at least a minimum of protection. By this time they were pale, bloated looking things with open cuts that no longer bled.
This was probably the only chance he'd have to sight the rifle. He measured off twenty five meters after making a mark on the trunk of a tree. Quickly, with practiced hands, he fired once, checked the hit and adjusted the sight for a bit lower and to the right. Another shot and he was on the money, hitting his mark with the sights adjusted for three hundred meters. He didn't like doing it, but the Viets already had a good idea of which way he was heading and he would need to know that his weapon functioned properly if they caught up to him. Testing done, he moved back into the brush, keeping his face to the rising sun.
The time, as near as he could figure, was now around 0900 hours. With his back to the west, he headed away from the mountains around the valley of Dien Bien Phu. Settling into a steady kilometer eating pace, he took the calculated risk of staying on a trail in order to make time. If he had stayed in the brush the Viets would have probably gotten in front of him. Moving without stopping, he ignored the growling in his gut. But he was able to do something about his thirst by hacking off a section of old bamboo at the joint. Inside the hollow of the tube was water that had seeped in during the rains. There was more than enough bamboo to take care of that problem, but he was still hungrier than shit and there was no time to stop and look for food.
When he could go no further, he picked out a spot where he'd have a clear field of fire covering the way he had come and the way he was heading. To his rear was heavy jungle and brush. That would be his way out if he had to use it. In the brush he was the equal of most men, and the Viets, for all their propaganda, were no better in the brush than were the French. Most of them had come from cities and villages and, like the French, had to learn to use the jungle. The ones to watch were the Montagnards, the hill peoples of the Muong, Meo, Thai and the tribes farther to the south, the Djarai, Bihnar, Rhade and Sedang. The Montagnards of Indochina were much like the Indians of America. There were dozens of sub tribal groupings that considered the tribe next to them to be complete foreigners, as much, if not more than they did the French or the Vietnamese. Some were for the Viet Minh, who promised them an autonomous republic once the colonialists were kicked out. Others sided with the French because they didn't trust, or simply hated, the Viets who had once hunted them like game animals. The Vietnamese word for them was Moi, meaning animal or savage. They were usually a bit taller than the Viets and more strongly built. But most of them were aboriginal in their life styles and cultures. They worshipped the spirits of the fields and streams, certain rocks and mountains, and the spirits of their ancestors. They hunted with homemade crossbows and spears.
Langer was just thinking about them when the point man for the Viet Minh hunters came into view on the same path he had been taking. He wondered how they had gotten onto him so fast, then saw the man on point squat on his haunches and run his hand over the ground. The tracker wore a khaki shirt like the Viets, but he was naked from the waist down except for a red and black loincloth. In his hand, he carried one of the native crossbows that fired bamboo arrows. Somewhere, the Viets had picked up a pet Montagnand to scout for them and it looke
d like the bastard was doing a damned fine job of it. Probably the best thing he had going for him was that he had gone further down the trail before cutting back to this spot. They would have to cross the clearing a good hundred meters before they came to where he had left the trail. That'd be when he'd take them.
Regretfully, he knew his first hit would have to be the Montagnard. He liked them, but he couldn't afford to let this one live and lead the Viets to him. He'd have to die.
Sliding back on his belly, he moved to where some overhanging branches would provide him with eye relief. Resting the barrel of the Tokarev on a log, he got ready. When he cut loose on them they would be about four hundred meters distant. He knew this because he had paced off the distance when he'd left the trail. Then, once he had taken up his position, he had sighted on a tree stump about the height of a man from the waist to the top of the head. The way the target set in his scope between the stadia marks confirmed his judgment.
Behind the Montagnard, the rest of the hunters came in single file. No flankers out! That would have taken too much time and they knew that their guide would lead them to their prey.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Adjusting his body behind the Tokarev rifle, he waited for the Viets following the Montagnard scout to enter the clearing. Five, ten, eleven counting the Montagnard. Take it easy, give them time, he thought; as he sighted on the Montagnard. Soon now, just as he reaches the spot where I left the trail and squatted down to check it out.